


The Pinnacle of You and I

by Zaikyo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:02:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaikyo/pseuds/Zaikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is love. And then there is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pinnacle of You and I

John steps quietly Into the hall of 221B, shutting the door silently behind himself before acending the stairs up to the living area. The flat is dark, blanketed by a thick shadow, so opaque it could very well be tangible. Nothing but the faint glow of a silver moon trickling in from the partially uncovered window holds any light and John stumbles a bit before he finds the light switch.

The room is a mess. Discarded sheet music and case files lay scattered and lost among stray pens, empty coffee mugs and tea cups, used nicotine patches and whatever those jar things are with various dark colors suggesting substances unknown are. It's worse than when John had left earlier in the evening, but he isn't surprised. Lack of any substantial leads on their present case had put Sherlock in a frenzy unlike his usual bouts of misplaced energy. He was alarmingly frayed, scattering himself (and his things) this way and that like exploding static with no means settling back into a reasonable charge. For John, it proved conflicting. On the one hand Sherlock's good moods were always contagious, his high spirits traveled with and around him like an aura of pleasantness, and the excitable jaunt in which he expressed this was fairly amusing to the doctor. However there was the _mess_. Something about being on a mental benge helped Sherlock conveniently lose all sense of personal organization and neatness. And at times John worried for the detective's health; he slept less when his engines were running, so to say, and his eating patterns (if you could call them patterns at all) would become erratic and pathetic at best. It was all John could to do keep some sense of order with the man, finding himself calling Sherlock down for dinner like a mother with her child and setting bedtimes as if he were in grade school. There was also the act of forcing Sherlock to clean up after himself, but that was a whole other matter.

John drops into his usual chair with a sigh, quietly toying with the idea of picking up the ridiculous mess for a minute, before throwing it out. It's late and the doctor hasn't the energy for a spring cleaning. Another night at Sarah's house. She's started to notice John never actually spends the night any longer, but she doesn't ask about it. John is sure she doesn't quite care, and he's content with that. What's between them isn't much beyond quaint friendship and casual sex, and that's honestly fine with the both of them. She has other partners, as does John. It works. It's fine.

But for a while now John's kept himself tied to their flat. No matter how late his evening out, he always comes home. He can't really imagine otherwise.

For a moment John deliberates on making a cup of tea, finally deciding against it. He wants to go to bed, it's too late for tea anyway.

Sighing once more he pushes himself from the chair's deep cushion and begins his quiet assent up the staircase to his room. Inside he finds it's just as dark as downstairs, the soft glow of moonlight streaming through his window matching that of the window in the living area almost exactly. He closes the door gently behind himself and strides over to the closet and begins removing his clothing. He can feel the eyes on him, like innocent peeking. There's a wonder there, an air of disbelief and questions that sway about the room and lean over John like a tower of wind. No matter how many times he's confronted by that stare, it never ceases to render him wrapped up in something like painful affection. He smiles, removes the rest of his clothing and turns toward the bed, stepping over and sliding in quietly. Instantly, arms come around and encircle his back, pulling him flush against warm skin. The ends of Sherlock's hair brush against John's forehead as he leans in, close enough for their noses to touch. It's a brilliant feeling, warm breath pooling over his skin, tickling his eyelashes and the instinctive desire to clutch at _anything_ that is Sherlock takes over and John reciprocates the arms around his back, lifting his leg to hook over Sherlock's hip like a clinging octopus. The lay there like that, listening to one another breathe, unconsciously mimicking the other's pulse rate after a minute or so, beautiful rhythmic beat pumping in tune between them. There's a little back rubbing here and there, periodic deliberate brushes of the nose, but for the most part they are comfortably still. After a while Sherlock asks,

"How was Sarah?"

John makes a noncommittal sound and nuzzles into the softness of Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock smirks the faintest bit. "You should bring her over for dinner, sometime. I wouldn't be opposed to a proper meal with her. I'd even behave if you asked."

And John can't help but smile at that. Because Sherlock means it. Sherlock knows that of all the women John sees, Sarah is the one John trusts the most and thusly, whom Sherlock trusts also. The detective holds a place for her in his gratitude, she gives John what he cannot, without taking what is rightfully his. That alone is enough for him to be on his best behavior when it comes to matters involving her. Sherlock had needed John to understand that he accepts her, because John accepts her, and that he honestly doesn't mind.

Because Sherlock really doesn't mind. Because Sherlock knows he has John already.

 

"Maybe," John yawns. "She's quite busy and you know," another yawn, much shorter than the first. "I prefer dinner with just you. Unless you're insisting?"

"Not at all." Sherlock pulls John just the faintest bit closer. As close as physical presence will allow. "I too like our dinners left between us. Speaking of, I may have melted the corningware today."

"Not the nice antique ones, I hope?"

"You might want to invest your hope in something else."

The stare at one another, utterly serious for a beat or two before erupting in a fit of laughter. John could honestly be furious. But he isn't.

"I swear," he giggles. "If I didn't love you I'd 'ave killed you ten times over by now."

"Oh John, don't be trite."

"I'm bloody serious!"

They shake with humor.

"Well," Sherlock continues. "I suppose it's rather good that you do love me then, isn't it?"

"Quite."

And that's honestly all there is to them. Their thing, whatever it is, is undefined and miscellaneous and _simple._ Sherlock is John's. John is Sherlock's  Sherlock looks to cases and criminals and the atrocities of the city to find his stimulation, John looks to women to find his. But they always make it back to each other, every night, they come together like this; nothing sexual, just absent touches and shared breath, and they know they are loved. Whatever they've found in each other, it's somehow managed to transcend all that anybody ever presumed love was supposed to be. Love, being defined this time by a different pinnacle, not sex or proclaimation, but by a gentle company, and deep, needy intimacy the likes of which neither has ever found anywhere else, and probably never will.

**Author's Note:**

> So some really lovely meta prompted this. It is short, and simple, and I really could've just not, but I did. Afghjk I'm sorry.


End file.
